If I Still Had Your Love
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: Engaged to be married to dear, sweet, albeit simple, Tom, Molly is perfectly content. Until Sherlock Holmes sweeps back into her life and mucks everything up.
1. If I Still Had Your Love

It probably wasn't seemly to be humming a happy diddly while stitching closed the chest of a 57-year-old proctologist whose proclivity for extramarital affairs led to an early demise at the hands of his vengeful lovers. But no one was around and Molly honestly didn't care one jot for social etiquette.

Finishing with a snip of the scissors, she put Mr Whitehall in the assigned cooler and shut the door. With a snap of her gloves, she tossed them in the hazard bin and set about cleaning up, pleasantly tired after a long shift and ready to call it a day.

Her phone pinged from the other room while she was sterilizing the tools. She smiled, knowing it was probably Thomas letting her know he was on his way to pick her up for their usual Tuesday evening date. A quiet dinner followed by a stroll through the park. Simple and sweet.

Just like Thomas.

Molly scowled at herself for the thought. Thomas was a dear, perhaps not brilliant, but that was no crime! She had met brilliant, intelligent men before and been burned badly. Thomas was the balm; a nice, albeit dim, man who liked her and made her feel wanted, special. And she would much rather be with someone like him than…

 _Stop!_

Annoyed with herself for the direction of her thoughts, Molly abruptly shook her head. She renewed her cleaning efforts and was nearly finished when the doors opened behind her.

"Just a mo'!" She called over her shoulder.

"No rush, Molly," DI Lestrade replied, his tired voice loud in the open room. "The dead aren't going anywhere."

Molly laughed softly. "I thought I was the bearer of bad jokes…"

Her voice trailed off and her smile faded when she glanced over her shoulder. Her hands stilled and an almost surreal calm washed over her. Standing beside Greg was a tall, curly-haired man in a long black coat. His pale features were sharpened by the fluorescent lights above, casting shadows under his prominent cheekbones. His eyes, piercing and bright, were focused directly on her with heart-stopping accuracy.

"Hello," she said coldly.

Greg turned around and sighed heavily. "Shoulda known you wouldn't wait in the hallway. Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes," he waved a hand between the two. "Sherlock, this is Doctor Hooper. Sherlock is giving us a hand with our investigation, a special favour by the DCI for his brother."

"How nice," she said evenly, turning back to her work. Purposefully, she placed the final scalpel on the tray and slid it into the metal drawer for the next pathologist on duty. She took the moment to center herself.

She felt Greg's eyes on her, curious and a bit surprised by her coolness, a marked difference from the burning gaze of the man behind him.

"Did I miss something?" The DI asked.

Molly slowly turned and crossed her arms, meeting Sherlock's stare with her own.

"Always," Sherlock replied dryly. His voice, deep and rich, reverberated around her. She saw the tick in his eye when her gaze turned colder at his slight toward her friend. "Doctor Hooper and I are…previously acquainted."

"Oh?" Greg looked between them with interest.

Sherlock looked her over, his gaze stopping for a moment on her left hand. Upon seeing the small diamond ring adorning her finger, his demeanor grew agitated and a scowl marked his face.

"You're engaged."

Molly tilted her head. "You're not usually one for stating the obvious, Sherlock."

That damn deducing look of his wouldn't stop. "It's recent, you're having doubts, unsure about your compatibility and wondering if he is the right choice-"

Molly raised a hand and stopped his deducing ramble with a single, "Enough!"

Remarkably, he shut up. And just in time. A ping sounded from her office again, breaking the tense air; no doubt Thomas letting her know he was waiting outside.

Gathering herself, Molly crossed the room and picked up her bag and jacket. "Dr Gumpta is on shift in 10 minutes, Greg. If you and your… _friend_ would wait here, I'll let her know you are here and she can assist you."

Though still looking between them curiously, Greg nodded. "Sure, Molly. And hey," he reached out and caught her arm as she strode past. His eyes softened and he looked at her questioningly. "Pints on Friday?"

Feeling a rush of affection for the man she loved as much as her own brother, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, ignoring the way Sherlock's nostrils flared in anger. "Meet you at the usual place around 7."

He nodded and let her go with a reassuring smile.

As soon as the door swung shut behind her, she leaned against the wall and breathed out sharply, feeling the numbness leak out of her and the adrenaline crash hit. Her heart raced and her limbs shook, a rushing sound filling her ears.

Suddenly the ring on her finger weighed her down and she looked down at it as if she had never noticed it before.

What a strange predicament to find herself in, she mused in silent hysteria. Engaged to a man, a sweet and kind man, waiting just outside to take her to a nice romantic dinner.

While her ex-husband stood just on the other side of the wall, staring at her as if he knew he still held her heart in his hands.


	2. You Still Have My Heart

London had changed very little since he had last walked her streets. Oh, the skyline now boasted several new skyscrapers and shops had come and gone. But the air, the thrum of life that rippled through her people, remained the same.

The cold wind whipped around him and he tugged his scarf higher around his neck. It would probably be wise to head back to Baker Street where Mrs Hudson would no doubt have hot tea and biscuits waiting for him, along with a sharp reprimand for being out in this weather.

But he had never been known for making wise choices.

His mind was running faster than ever, his thoughts flitting through faster than he could even comprehend them. Ten years worth of memories that he had never quite managed to lock away.

He should have expected to find her at one of London's top hospitals. He had known she lived and worked in London, but had never been brave enough to look further. The temptation to run to her, to insert himself back into her life, was too great.

The shock of seeing her so suddenly, though, had knocked every thought out of his head. She hadn't changed at all. Her hair was pulled back in the same long, silky ponytail, and the bridge of her nose had the little red indents on the side from the glasses she wore when reading. The cherry print blouse, his favourite, peaked out from beneath her labcoat. And her smile, bright and wide, was achingly familiar.

It was like a kick in the gut when she laid eyes on him and her smile vanished.

His steps slowed as he rounded the corner just as the door to a restaurant across the way opened and a couple stepped out.

 _Molly_ .

He froze. She had changed out of the cherry print blouse and now wore a deep purple wrap dress, which he only glimpsed briefly before she buttoned her coat over it. She pulled a handmade knit hat out of her pocket and covered her unbound hair, the silky locks he could still remember threading through his fingers, being whipped around by the wind.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from her and briefly looked over the man with her, the fiance no doubt. He was tall and curly-haired and lanky; an accountant, two dogs, favors lager over wine, and

He watched as the man raised his arm to call for a cab. Molly pulled her coat closer and huddled against the cold, her fiance noticing and wrapping his free arm around her shoulders.

To anyone else, they would look like a smitten couple. But Sherlock, even from across the street, could see the subtle signs that anyone else would miss. Dwarfed by the man, Molly seemed to sink into herself, her smile of gratitude forced and just shy of a grimace. She twisted her hands together and turned her face when he leaned down to kiss her, his lips landing on her cheek.

 _She didn't love him._

The deduction stole his breath and his heart lurched.

He knew what love looked like, in her smile and her eyes, in how she had leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes would sparkle and she would bite her lip. She had showed her love in more tactile ways, constantly reaching for him, linking their hands together, kissing his neck, cheeks, lips…

As the couple slid into the back of a cab and pulled away, Sherlock stared after them, his jaw set.

She had always held his heart. And if there was any chance she still loved him, too, he was damned if he was going to let her go again.


	3. Can Love Mend Our Broken Hearts

What was she doing?

She had closed the book on her history with Sherlock Holmes five years ago. Closed it, bound it, and put it in a locked chest far away in the recesses of her heart.

So why was she standing here, staring up at the polished black door with a slightly crooked knocker, taking it out again?

 **221B Baker Street. Please.**

She looked down at the text on her phone. It had come that morning from a strange number. But she'd known it was him, even if he hadn't signed it.

He had always signed them. In the beginning, he had added an 'x' after his initials. When it disappeared…that was the beginning of the end.

Clenching her fist, she closed her eyes and shook her head. Why was she doing this? Why open up old wounds?

She slipped her phone into her coat pocket and turned to walk away just as the door swung inward.

"Molly."

She stopped and closed her eyes. When she opened them, he stood before her, barefoot on the cold pavement. The wind tousled his dark hair and a curl fell over his eyes. He wore a beautiful, rich plum dress shirt which stretched across his broad chest and tucked into tightly tailored trousers. A part of her resented how put-together he looked. And that she was still attracted to him. Even after all these years, after all she had accomplished and done to put the past behind her, he still held her heart captive.

"You came all this way only to leave?"

Instantly, her guard was back up and she scowled.

A brief look of regret washed over his face when he realised what he'd said.

"It's apparently what we do."

The look of shame on his face at her reply was a bittersweet victory.

"Please," he offered softly. "At least come in for a cuppa and warm up."

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to bugger off and that coming had been a mistake, but just then the London wind, as predictable as ever, came rushing around them and with it a biting chill that caused her teeth to chatter.

As she let him lead her inside, she told herself she would stay for one cup. Just to warm up.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the way his quicksilver eyes had drank her in and her heart had jumped in her chest at the look on his face when he said 'please.'

oOo

She was still in her coat, despite his attempt to take it from her. To her surprise, he let it go. Years ago, he would have dug his heels in, been a stubborn git, just to have his way. No matter how ridiculous.

Twisting her gloved hands in front of her, she walked deeper into the lounge. Books filled the shelves that ran from floor to ceiling and overflowed into the room in haphazard piles. Three laptops sat precariously atop a stack of papers on a large table and a fourth was open on the coffee table between a black leather chair and an ordinary armchair.

She looked over to the kitchen where Sherlock was bustling about making tea. The kettle whistled and he jumped to take it off the heat. An enormous table filled the room and seemed to be an odd, likely unsanitary, combination of an eating space and a laboratory.

Looking past him, there was a door at the end of a short hallway that was cracked and she could make out the edge of a bed and a mountain of cardboard boxes that had apparently been chucked inside.

"How long have you been in London?"

He looked at her over his shoulder before turning back to the tea. "27 days." Picking up the tray, he carried it over to the lounge and set it next to the laptop, which he promptly shut and tossed onto the couch. He handed her a cup filled with steaming tea, the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers through the gloves. She took a sip and her heart skipped a beat.

"Milk and three sugars," he had been watching her and she glanced at him. An almost shy look was on his face and he smiled softly. "Never deleted it."

Molly held his gaze for just a moment longer before she had to break it. If she wasn't careful, he could sweep her off her feet all over again. And that turned out so well the first time, she thought wryly.

Lowering herself into the armchair, she sighed. "Why am I here, Sherlock?"

He sat opposite her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. A frown creased his brow and he paused in thought, his mouth opening to speak but he suddenly seemed unsure. Then an almost tender look, a somberness, passed over his face. "You don't love him. Do you?"

Molly set her tea down before she fumbled it and answered him coldly, "I don't see what business of yours it is who I do or do not love."

He smiled triumphantly at her non-answer and leaned back, but one look at her face and he sobered. "Molly, I-"

"But you're right."

The look of absolute dumbfoundedness on his arrogant face was a little bit satisfying. Molly smiled ruefully and slowly pulled off her gloves. His eyes immediately went to her left hand where a ring had been up until three days ago. She followed his gaze and self-consciously rubbed the spot where Tom's engagement ring had been.

"It wasn't that I didn't love him. I did, in a way. But I just…couldn't give him my whole heart." She closed her eyes and remembered Tom's confused face. He'd been understanding and taken the ring back with the politeness of an Englishman. But she knew the look of a broken heart. She'd seen it in the mirror everyday and could only hope that he found someone who would make his whole again.

"I am sorry." It was stilted, but sincere.

Molly could only smile, but knew it came out as more of a grimace.

Suddenly, he was beside her, down on one knee, his large hand covering hers. Her breath caught at his proximity, so close she could see where the green of his eyes melted into the icy blue. His hands, as long and elegant as she remembered, bore new markings. A long, white scar ran from beneath his shirt cuff and across thumb. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips from his violin's strings.

She could barely find the breath to say, "Sherlock, what…?"

Whatever words he had been looking for before, he had finally found and they burst from him as if he had no power to hold them back.

"I love you." He reached up with his free hand to cup her cheek, his palm cool against her flushed cheeks. "Molly, I still love you."


	4. Two Broken Halves of a Whole

**Four Years Ago**

As she let herself into their flat, she knew. Everything was in its place, but there was an echo of sorrow in the soft yellow walls.

On the table by the door he had perched an envelope against the vase of flowers that had long ago withered. A bouquet of roses he had had delivered for their anniversary with a note of apology that he would be unable to make it home in time.

He hadn't even had the decency to say good-bye.

Just another nail in the coffin of their marriage. She had held the pieces of it together for the past six months, but with each passing day, he grew colder and more distant.

With shaking hands, she opened the envelope. A flash of gold. Turning it over, his wedding ring tumbled into her hand. The note inside was short and simple.

 **Forgive me. SH**

When her brother-in-law arrived the next morning to pack Sherlock's belongings, Molly had already cried her heart sick. She watched numbly as a fleet of black-suited men tore her life in half.

"Is he at least alive and safe?"

She couldn't bear to look at Mycroft and see the pity in his eyes.

"Yes."

It was all she needed to know. As the last of her husband's belongings were carried out the door, Mycroft turned to her and pulled out a thick folder.

"We can postpone this for a later time if-"

"Let's just get this over with," Molly cut him off and took the papers from him, her heart shattering at the title of the first page. She'd known what it was, but seeing _Official Petition for Divorce_ written in black and white, brought reality crashing around her. Willing her voice to remain steady, she took the pen Mycroft offered. "Tell me where I need to sign."

And with that, she closed the book on her life with Sherlock Holmes.

oOo

 _Whatever words he had been looking for before, he had finally found and they burst from him as if he had no power to hold them back._

 _"I love you." He reached up with his free hand to cup her cheek, his palm cool against her flushed cheeks. "Molly, I still love you."_

oOo

"Please. Say something."

"Liar." Her soft accusation was louder than any scream.

He had to make her understand.

"I know you have no reason to believe me, but it is true. It has always been true, Molly."

She scoffed derisively. "No. What's true is that you took the easy way out of a marriage your heart was no longer involved in and left me to pick up the pieces of my life, wondering what I had done to make you stop loving me."

He shook his head. "Nothing would make me stop loving you."

Tears filled her brown eyes and the sight broke his heart. "You left me a sodding _note_ , Sherlock. And signed it like I was a client. Not the woman you had married. The woman who shared a home, a bed, a life, with you for five years."

He retreated as she fumbled in her pockets for a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eye, sniffling suspiciously. Running his hands through his hair, he knew he had to tell her the whole truth. It would be the only way she ever forgave him. And gave him a second chance he didn't deserve.

Going to the skull on the mantle, he pulled out a small envelope from the cranial cavity.

"Five years ago," he began, "a man named James Moriarty challenged me to a game. A game of murder."

She watched him warily and took the envelope from his outstretched hand. He sank into his chair and continued as she pulled out the snapshots and went through them one by one, her face turning pale.

"He saw me as his intellectual rival. A sick, twisted mind. He killed mercilessly and had built an empire that even Mycroft feared."

Suddenly, her hand flew to her mouth. Sherlock didn't have to look to know which one photo had caused her shock. It was burned into his memory.

Almost every photo was of her and him. Except one. It had been the deciding factor for him to leave. She had been a resident at the time at Princess and the snapshot was of her working in the locked lab. There was another pathologist with her, her friend Teddy. Only Teddy was smiling at the hidden camera while Molly's face was turned, his eyes cold and ruthless. A gun handle could be seen in the break of his lab coat. A last resort, considering the chemicals they surrounded themselves with every day were a more resourceful method of murder.

In black marker across the bottom, it read: **IOU.**

"You were in danger. Every day. We missed Moran, _Teddy_ , the first time and I couldn't take the risk again. That's why…" He paused and took a deep breath, his heart racing, as he admitted, "That's why I left. As long as anyone thought you were important to me, your life was in danger."

She looked away from the photo, her jaw clenched. Suddenly, she stood up.

Sherlock stood. "Molly, I didn't want to worry you-"

"Worry me?" Molly exploded, rounding on him in a fury. "I was your _wife!_ If you were in trouble, I should have been the first person to know! We would have come up with a plan to get through it. Together."

He blanched.

"But instead you decided _for me._ Decided that I didn't have a say in what happened between us. You just left and determined I would be the better for it. Well, let me tell you something, genius. I'm not."

As she stormed past him, he grabbed her wrist, the photos fluttering to the floor. "I would do it again."

Her nostrils flared in anger. Beneath his fingertips, her heartbeat was racing.

"If breaking your heart meant saving your life, I would do it again," he promised fiercely. "It broke me to leave you. Only knowing you were safe kept me sane while I destroyed Moriarty's empire. In my darkest nights, I dreamed of you, wondered what you were doing. If you were thinking of me. You were the reason I kept fighting.

"I thought I was doing the right thing." His voice softened and he relaxed his grip, rejoicing inwardly when she did not pull away. With his other hand, he trailed his finger along the necklace she wore and tugged it free of her shirt.

Dangling from the silver chain were their wedding rings.

"You kept them," he whispered in awe.

Gently taking the chain away, Molly tucked the rings back beneath her shirt's collar. Tiredly, she said, "For better or worse, Sherlock. We promised each other. And I meant it. Even if you didn't."

He let her go. "I meant it. I still do. I love you, Molly. Everything I've done has been driven by my love for you. If anything had happened to you because of me, I would never have been able to live with myself. I am sorry I was not honest with you and instead of trusting you with the truth, I made the decision for you."

Hope flared to life when she relaxed slightly at his earnest plea.

"Can you forgive me?"

He stepped into her space and drew his finger down her cheek the way he used to that made her shiver. "And if you can…do you still love me enough to get to know me again? To one day let me put that ring back on your finger?"


End file.
